


Only One Witcher: One Human AU

by galactic_roses



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Injury, M/M, One Shot, Pining, one human
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-30 19:12:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19409623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galactic_roses/pseuds/galactic_roses
Summary: Eskel grows up in a small village in the countryside of Velen. He encounters a strange witcher several times, and the man begins to haunt him.Thanks to my wonderful beta-reader, Midwinter-fox!





	Only One Witcher: One Human AU

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first truly angsty fic. Hope you enjoy!

The first time he sees the man, Eskel is only four. He’s sitting on the doorstep of his house, watching the village people moving to and fro, conducting their daily business. His vision is a bit hazy and his head feels a bit funny, so at first he doesn’t notice when the townspeople begin to hurry back to their dwellings. The sound of a child’s crying catches his attention, and he looks up, trying to see what has upset the village so.

The village road is empty. All the townspeople have hidden away in their houses, even grabbing their many children and pushing them inside. Eskel is confused. He can’t see very far, so he stands and walks forward until he can look both ways down the road. Through his fever-hazed vision, he sees a huge figure riding toward him on the back of a horse. It’s a sunny day, so Eskel is blinded a little as the odd figure is silhouetted by the light. Even though his head feels like it is full of wool, he notices the two stick-like shapes protruding from the figure’s back. The horse stops in front of him, and he looks up into the shadowed face of a monster. A thrill of fear registers in Eskel’s foggy mind.

“Go home, little boy,” the figure growls, its voice the deepest and roughest that Eskel has ever heard. “You shouldn’t be out here.”

Eskel steps back, eyes wide. The tingle of fear turns into a roar in the back of his head, and he turns to run back to his house. When he reaches the doorstep, he stops and looks over his shoulder. The figure on the horse is still watching him.

“Eskel,” his mother hisses, grabbing him and pulling him roughly inside. The door snaps shut behind him. “You idiot child. You could’ve been kidnapped.” She slaps him across the face, and he reels back, sitting down with a thump. Hot tears spill over his already too-warm cheeks. He doesn’t want to cry, but he can’t help it. After all, he is only four.

The second time he sees the man, Eskel is nine. He had somehow survived the fever that killed his sister and brother when he was young, so he is the only child around to help with household chores. His mother resents him for it, he can tell, so he tries his best to be a good child.

“Eskel, you brat, hurry up with that water!” his mother yells from inside the house. Picking up his pace, Eskel doesn’t see the rock in the path that trips him. Bucket and boy spill onto the ground, precious water leaking into the dirt. Tears well in his eyes, but he tries to blink them back. The other town boys will mock him relentlessly if they see him crying again. Pain begins to bloom in his knees and palms, and a sob threatens to burst from his throat.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when huge, calloused hands slip under his armpits and lift him to his feet.

“Clumsy kid,” a deep voice grumbles. “Never liked ‘em.”

Eskel sniffles and turns to thank his rescuer, but he chokes on the words before they can escape. The shadowed eyes looking down at him are a greenish-yellow with slit pupils like a snake. The man’s eyes aren’t the only odd thing about him though; he is massive, simply a huge mountain of muscle. The sun reflects off his shaved scalp. A forked scar runs across his forehead, and several other small scars mark the rest of his face. His features are heavy and blunt with rough stubble covering his jaw. Looking down, Eskel sees that the man is wearing strange clothes and two short swords strapped to his torso. Two more swords are strapped to his back, their hilts showing above his shoulder. Eskel looks back up to see the man blinking owlishly and staring down at him, expression unreadable.

Eskel takes a few steps back, the same fear from five years ago rushing down his spine, and the breath hitches in his lungs.

“Calm down,” the man grunts, “I won’t do nothing to you.” The man bends down and takes the empty bucket from the ground. “Wait here, little man.”

Legs shaking, Eskel sits down hard. He watches the man disappear then return with a full bucket moments later.

“Kids,” the man mutters, pulling Eskel to his feet again with one huge hand, not noticing the boy wince at his grip. He crouches down and hands the now full bucket to the boy. “There you go.” The man stands, unfurling his substantial height.

“Eskel, now!” Eskel’s mother shouts. The huge man looks down at him, face still unreadable.

“Get lost,” he growls, “Your ma won’t be happy if she sees you with me.”

Nodding, Eskel looks up into the man’s face again.

“Thanks, mister,” he sniffs, wiping his face on the back of his grimy free hand. The man pauses.

“Hold on, kid.” The man stoops down and grips his chin with rough fingers, turning his face to one side none too gently. The lanky bangs over Eskel’s forehead fall back, showing a purple and red welt above his eyebrow. Humming softly, the man drops Eskel’s chin and stands up. He ruffles Eskel’s hair in an absent, awkward gesture, then turns away, and the kind touch causes a pleasant warmth to course through Eskel. He hiccups in surprise.

“Not my problem,” the man mutters to himself. He walks away, leaving a bemused Eskel to return to his house with the bucket of water. The slap he gets from his mother hardly stings; he is too preoccupied with thinking about the strange and frightening yet kind man.

The third time he sees the man, Eskel is sixteen. His father died three years ago, and his mother drinks away nearly all of the money he manages to make. He takes care of their goat and cow and apprentices at the local blacksmith when he can, exchanging work and time for the opportunity to fix his broken tools and make things to sell. The blacksmith has begun to notice that his pieces sell quickly and almost always go to the wealthier merchants who pass through the town. Impressed, the dwarf had suggested that he begin apprenticing more often and more seriously.

That is why on this particular morning Eskel is sprinting out of his house, late for his morning shift with the blacksmith. He had overslept and had just barely managed to finish milking his cow and goat before he realized that he needed to run. Distracted by his tardiness, he doesn’t see the other man until it’s too late.

_WHAM!_

Eskel collides with what feels like a wall and falls back, landing on his rump in the dirt.

“You spend a lot of time sitting on the ground, kid,” a rough voice says, sounding amused. Eskel looks up into a face he recognizes.

“You?” Eskel wheezes, trying to regain his breath.

“Where are you off to in such a hurry?” the man asks. Eskel coughs for a moment, then struggles to his feet.

“I’m… late,” he huffs. “I have to… to get to the blacksmith.”

“Funnily enough, I need to see the blacksmith as well.” The man’s eyes dance wickedly. “He has work for me, too.”

Eskel gapes at him for a moment, then shrugs and heads in the direction of the blacksmith’s shop, the strange man in tow. _For someone so large, he walks extremely quietly,_ Eskel thinks, beginning to jog. The man keeps up easily.

The blacksmith is annoyed when Eskel finally reaches the shop, but his expression changes when he sees the man behind him.

“Here about the notice,” the man says, stepping out from behind Eskel, all traces of friendly amusement gone from his face and voice.

“Ah, the notice.” The blacksmith relaxes visibly, his shoulders losing their tension. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Unconcerned by the situation, Eskel begins to tidy the shop.

“Flyer mentions a missing shipment,” the man grunts. “Gonna need more details.”

Blinking hard, the blacksmith swallows and nods. Eskel listens distractedly as the blacksmith begins to explain his situation. He doesn’t really pay full attention until the blacksmith mentions other disappearances in the area and a possible monster sighting. Stopping his tidying, Eskel swivels around and takes another, closer look at the strange man. Twin swords, numerous scars, strange eyes… Eskel gasps quietly, then attempts to cover the noise with a cough. The strange man must be a witcher. He had never thought about it - never even considered the possibility - but the facts made sense.

The witcher’s eyes flick in his direction, then he turns back to the blacksmith.

“Alright,” he says. “I’ll look into it.” He turns slowly to look at Eskel for a moment, then he walks out of the shop.

The witcher returns hours later. It’s dusk when Eskel decides to leave the shop. As soon as he steps out into the cool night, he sees a hulking figure moving toward him carrying a large sack and a strangely shaped item in its hands.

“You, boy,” the figure growls. “Where is the blacksmith?”

“My name is Eskel,” Eskel says, feeling the familiar thrill of fear shoot down his spine, “and he’s most likely in his house, around the back.”

“Eskel,” the man mutters, seemingly testing the sound of the name in his mouth. “Right, then. Wait here.”

Unsure why he is doing what the man says, Eskel waits by the door. Only a few minutes later, the witcher returns. The items he was carrying are gone. His pocket jingles.

“I’ll walk you home,” he grunts, thrusting his hands into his pockets. Slightly uneasy, Eskel shrugs.

“I only live down the road.” Eskel’s voice cracks as he speaks. The witcher chuckles quietly.

“Don’t worry, kid,” he says. “I don’t have anywhere to be.”

Resigned to the vague discomfort, Eskel shrugs and leads the way back to his home. He stops in front of the door, turning back to look up into the witcher’s eyes.

“What’s your name, anyway?” Eskel asks, faintly surprised by his own words. The witcher seems surprised as well. After a brief moment, he lets out a low chuckle.

“Letho,” he replies, “Letho of Gulet. Anyway, gotta go. ‘Night, kid.”

The next time he sees the man, Eskel is twenty-two. He’s been living on his own for only two months now. His mother drank herself to death two months ago, leaving Eskel their tiny, ramshackle house. Their cow had died about a year earlier, but their goat is still alive and well, providing Eskel with most of his company. He had risen in the eyes of the blacksmith over the years, becoming a valued assistant to the man. The small garden behind Eskel’s house produced many types of vegetables, and his goat produced milk and cheese, so he rarely went hungry. When he was free, he helped other villagers with their work in the fields. It was while he was working in one of their fields that they discovered the nest of ghouls.

“Everyone, run!” Eskel yells, gesturing wildly to the other workers. The men take off, and Eskel is left trying to hold off three ghouls with only an old scythe. He can feel panic rising in his throat and choking him as the creatures creep closer. One of the monsters springs. Swinging the unwieldy, make-shift weapon, Eskel tries to defend himself, but unused to the tool, he misses. A blinding pain rakes down the right side of his face, and he stumbles back, tripping over a stray root. Convinced he is about to die, Eskel squeezes his eyes shut. Instead of feeling claws and teeth digging into his body, he hears the whistle of a blade singing through the air. When he dares to open his left eye a minute later, the right still closed to protect it from the blood pouring over his face, he sees a man standing nearby, spattered with gore and surrounded by the mangled bodies of the ghouls.

“You alright, kid?” the man asks. “Looks like they got you good.” The witcher steps over the ghouls and walks over to him, crouching down to get a better look at his face. “Here, I can help you treat those, c’mon.” Despite Eskel having grown both taller and heavier since he was nine, the witcher lifts him with ease. “Let’s go.”

The man slings Eskel’s arm over his meaty shoulders and helps him across the field toward his house, muttering encouragement as Eskel stumbles along. Pushing into Eskel’s house, the man sits him down in a rickety chair and moves about, gathering supplies. He finds Eskel again a moment later, warm water and a clean rag in hand.

“Head back. Yeah, like that,” the man murmurs, beginning to clean the gouges on Eskel’s face. Eskel submits to the cleaning, still shocked by the sudden attack and rescue. The pain doesn’t bother him much, but it does begin to sting more as the fog clears from his head.

“You… saved my life?” Eskel says, more of a question than a statement. The witcher shrugs.

“Focused on the ghouls. You were just lucky.”

Eskel raises his left eyebrow, then flinches as the man begins to clean a particularly tender area.

“Well, thanks,” he says, his voice dry. The man pauses in his cleaning to chuckle, and Eskel suddenly remembers his name. “Letho.”

Letho continues to clean the clotting blood away from Eskel’s cheek.

“Don’t you know better than to mess with ghouls?” the man asks. Eskel bristles slightly at the tone in his voice.

“We didn’t know they had moved in— ouch!” Eskel exclaims, jerking away from the touch.

“Sit still,” Letho grunts. “Won’t need stitches, though. You really are lucky, kid. The scratches aren’t too deep, just nasty looking. You’ll have a scar for the rest of your life.”

Eskel lets out a quiet moan, the pain beginning to really set in. His face throbs, and his body aches from the stress and the fall.

“Witcher healing potions would most likely kill you, otherwise I’d offer you one,” Letho growls, getting up to wash his hands in the wash basin. He walks back over, digging a jar out of his pocket, and crouches next to Eskel again. “Lucky for you, I have some experience with healing the more natural way.” Reaching out with surprisingly delicate fingers, the witcher smears the paste from the jar onto the cuts on Eskel’s face, and Eskel yelps.

“Only stings for a second,” the witcher says, eyebrows furrowed. “Don’t be a baby.”

“Don’t patronize me,” Eskel snaps, the pain from the wounds making him irritable. “This shit hurts.”

“Think I don’t know that?” the witcher grunts, standing up to wipe his hands on his trousers. “My face alone should tell you plenty.”

Eskel bites his lip and deals with the pain, noticing as it begins to subside. When the sharp stinging becomes a dull ache, Eskel sighs deeply.

“Thank you for this,” he says, finding his manners again, however rusty. “I appreciate it.”

The witcher shrugs, his expression unreadable.

“You’re welcome,” he grunts. He seems to think for a moment, then he takes a breath. “I’ll be in town for a few days to rest and refuel. You should sleep as much as you can, just don’t roll onto your face.”

Eskel stands shakily, then stumbles. The room spins around him, but Letho catches his arm and hauls him upright.

“Sleep, idiot,” Letho says. “Where’s your bed?” Eskel points to the bed in the corner of the room, his eyes beginning to close of their own accord. Hauling him across the room, Letho drops him gently onto the straw-stuffed mattress. “I’ll be back to check if you’re alive tonight.” He moves toward the door.

“Wait,” Eskel says with a weak cough, “I know the Inn costs gold, and if you meant to kill me you wouldn’t have wasted your time or healing ointment on me. You can stay here if you want.”

The witcher stops and turns to cast an odd look at him.

“Appreciate that,” he finally says, eyes still unreadable. “I’ll come back this evening. Now, sleep.”

Eskel wakes up several hours later, feeling hazy and confused. Reaching up to touch his face, he flinches, feeling the ointment the witcher had smeared on the cuts he’d acquired earlier in the day.

“You’re still alive, then,” a voice growls from nearby. Eskel sits up too fast, and nearly flops over again from the dizziness and sudden ache in his face. Gasping for a moment to find his breath, he looks over to see the witcher sitting on the other bed, watching him. He sighs.

“I forgot you’d be here,” Eskel says, throwing his legs over the side of the bed. “You scared me.”

“You’re surprisingly un-scared of me, actually,” the witcher responds. “Anyway, I found some food, figured you’d be hungry.” He stands and walks over to Eskel, handing him a piece of heavy bread, a hunk of cheese, and a carrot. Eskel gratefully accepts the food, and begins to eat gingerly, being careful of the cuts by the corner of his mouth and on his lip. His eyes follow the witcher as the man sits back down.

“How’re you feeling?” Letho asks. Eskel swallows carefully.

“Fine, I think,” Eskel replies, reaching up to probe the skin around the wounds. I _t feels tender, but not too swollen,_ Eskel thinks.

“The ointment helps prevent infection, among other things,” Letho says softly, accurately guessing Eskel’s thoughts. “The cuts should heal well as long as you stop touching them.” Eskel guiltily lowers his hand, a flush heating his cheeks. Shaking his shaved head, the witcher sighs.

“I’ll keep an eye on you until I’m sure you won’t die,” he growls. “Go back to sleep.”

Eskel finishes the last of his cheese and lowers himself back on the bed, comforted despite what he knows he should be feeling in a witcher’s presence. He sleeps.

The witcher stays for another three days. He helps Eskel by tending to the goat, and doing household chores. The man even makes Eskel’s excuses to the blacksmith. Eskel is surprised by him at every turn. Letho proves to be very different than the stories Eskel has heard about witchers. He doesn’t speak much, and when he does his words are clipped and blunt, and he gets straight to the point. Instead of showing a penchant for unnecessary cruelty, he seems to be fairly kind in his own rough way.

Letho gives Eskel the jar of healing ointment the morning that he leaves. He hands over the jar, with a crooked half-smile.

“Take care of those cuts still,” he grunts. “They won’t be healed properly for at least another week or so, maybe even two.”

“Thanks for this,” Eskel replies, feeling almost embarrassed. “I won’t forget it.”

“Good luck, kid.” The witcher turns and walks away, wandering down the road until he is out of sight. Eskel watches him leave, feeling strangely lonely.

The next time he sees the witcher, Eskel is twenty-seven. He still hasn’t married, and though a few brave women have tried expressing their interest, he’s turned them all down. His scars have kept all the other women of the town away from him. Although the ghoul that marked him had narrowly missed his eye, the scars ran the length of his face, cutting into his lips and chin and giving him a permanent half-sneer. 

Living on his own for so many years, he has become a bit of an enigma to the town. When he isn’t working at the blacksmith’s shop, he tends his garden and cares for his goat. His goat is getting pretty old, but she is still sprightly enough. He doesn’t spend much time around the townsfolk, preferring to keep to himself outside of work.

He thinks about the odd witcher from time to time, even dreaming about the man on occasion. When he’s bored, sometimes greenish-yellow eyes with slit pupils flash in his mind’s eye, and he becomes even more quiet and thoughtful than usual.

It’s during one of these thoughtful moods that Eskel hears soft footsteps approaching him. He stops working the blade in his grip and looks around, wondering who would want to speak to him. Anyone with blacksmithing matters would surely approach the blacksmith… wouldn’t they? He isn’t prepared for the rush of heat that floods his face when he sees the man standing nearby.

“Healed nice, then,” Letho says, rubbing a hand over his shaved crown. When Eskel stares at him, speechless, the witcher gestures to the side of his face.

“Oh, yeah,” Eskel manages, finally finding his tongue. “Yeah, it healed. It’s not pretty, though.”

A half-smile crooks the corner of the witcher’s mouth.

“Pretty enough as scars go,” he says. Eskel blushes more. He doesn’t understand why his face is heating up and suddenly realizes that the odd feeling in his chest is embarrassment.

“I, uh,” he stammers, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. It’s been years since he’s felt embarrassed about anything.

“Suppose I gotta stop calling you kid now,” Letho says, scrutinizing Eskel’s reddening features. “You’re all grown up.”

“I mean, I guess,” Eskel replies, willing away the heat in his cheeks. He reaches a hand up to absently touch the scars next to his mouth, a habit he has developed over the past several years. “I’ve been on my own for a while now.”

The witcher nods, his strange eyes never leaving Eskel’s face.

“Nice to see you’re doing well,” he grunts.

“You… too?” Eskel replies hesitantly, noticing for the first time that the man hasn’t changed a bit since Eskel had first seen him. “You don’t look any different than last time I saw you.”

The witcher raises a single eyebrow, a look of amusement on his face.

“Don’t change much these days,” he drawls, scratching his chin with a lazy finger. Eskel sees a glint of gold in the witcher’s earlobe as the man looks up at the orange-tinted evening sky and feels a strange lurch under his ribs. Letho inhales deeply then looks back at Eskel, his snake-like eyes sparkling.

“Have some free time soon?” the witcher asks, his voice low and almost teasing. “Gonna go get a drink at the tavern. Care to accompany me?”

Eskel nearly chokes on his own spit. Fire flares under his skin, and he struggles to pull air into his lungs. Have I eaten something bad? he wonders.

“Sure,” he replies, as soon as he catches his breath. “L-let me clean up.”

Eskel hurries to clean and lock up the blacksmith’s shop, feeling a weird fluttering in his stomach the entire time. The witcher waits patiently outside the shop until Eskel reappears.

“Ready?” he asks. Eskel nods, speechless. They walk to the tavern in silence, then Letho holds the door open for him.

“Two shots of vodka,” Letho grunts to the bartender, banging some coins down on the counter, Eskel watching the whole thing from behind the larger man. The bartender shoots him a look of mixed annoyance and fear before pouring the shots. Taking both with a curt nod to the bartender, Letho leads Eskel over to a secluded table and sits down, a crooked smile reappearing on his face.

“C’mon, country boy, never tried liquor before?” the witcher drawls, handing one of the shots to Eskel and holding up his own. The gesture isn’t unfamiliar to Eskel, so he lifts the shot and clinks it against Letho’s, then tosses it back. He nearly spits the liquid out, shocked by the sharp, burning feeling that floods his throat and nose as he manages to swallow.

“That’s vile!” Eskel says with a weak cough, putting the shot glass down a bit more forcefully than he intends to. “And no, I’ve never had liquor before. Beer yes, but never liquor.”

The quirk of the witcher’s eyebrow asks the question without words.

“My mother drank herself to death on this stuff,” Eskel replies, his mouth twisting bitterly. The witcher’s eyebrow drops back into place.

“The woman who beat you?” Letho asks, his voice barely a rumble. Eskel flinches slightly at the words, almost as if Letho himself had just dealt one of the blows that had rained down on him throughout his childhood.

“Yeah, her,” he finally replies, his face set. “I never felt like dabbling in her choice of poison.”

“Didn’t have to drink it,” Letho says, expression bland. “Wouldn’t have minded two shots, myself.”

“It would’ve been rude to refuse,” Eskel sighs. “Plus, I would’ve tried it at some point or another.” He waves a hand at a nearby tavern worker and the girl comes over, smiling cheerfully.

“Evening, Eskel, how are— whoa,” she says, abruptly noticing the witcher and taking a step back.

“Don’t worry about him, Gluzka,” Eskel says, shrugging. “Can you bring us a tankard of ale and another shot of vodka, please?”

The girl nods hesitantly, her smile flickering back into place, and she leaves to get the drinks. Eskel hands her some coins when she returns with the booze, and flashes her a surprisingly charming smile.

“Thanks,” he says, and she retreats, covering a blush with one hand. The witcher sees the color, but Eskel doesn’t seem to notice as he hands Letho the shot of liquor.

“Cheers, then,” he says, tapping his tankard to the shot before taking a long drink to wash the taste of vodka from his mouth. The shot glass hits the table before Eskel swallows.

“When witchers get together, sometimes we mix a hallucinogenic potion into our vodka,” Letho murmurs, lowering his voice as a few patrons pass by. “Makes things a bit more interesting.”

“I can’t imagine,” Eskel replies, looking into his tankard. “I don’t do a whole lot besides work.” The beer in his tankard foams and sloshes as he sets it down, feeling like an ignorant country boy. “I take care of my goat and my garden when I’m not working for the smith. I also make repairs on my house when needed.”

“Can’t remember what it feels like to have a home.” The words are quiet, but something in the tone of the witcher’s voice makes Eskel look up. Letho is looking at him, eyes shadowed. The heat returns to Eskel’s face with full force, but if the other man notices, he doesn’t comment.

“I’m sorry…?” Eskel says, voice unsure. Letho chuckles, and a weird thrill tingles down the back of Eskel’s neck.

“No need,” the witcher grunts, still grinning. “Don’t care much. Wandering life suits me.” He scratches his chin thoughtfully, eyeing the message board in the corner of the tavern. “Wish work was easier to find, though.”

Eskel drains his tankard and burps, earning a grin from his companion.

“I heard a rumor from a passing merchant that there’s trouble in the town to the east of here,” he tells the other man. “From the merchant’s story, it sounds like the problem could use a witcher.”

Letho gets to his feet, once again surprising Eskel with his substantial height. Eskel gulps but follows the other man outside.

“Thanks for the drink,” Letho says, turning to look down into Eskel’s eyes, “and for the conversation. You’d be surprised how hard it is to find someone willing to talk to a witcher these days.”

“Actually,” Eskel says, looking the man up and down, “I’m not surprised.” He stuck out his hand, much larger and more calloused than it was when he was when he first met the witcher, and Letho took it. They shook hands.

“I hope I’ll see you again, Letho,” Eskel says, a little surprised that he truly means it. The witcher chuckles and leans forward slightly, seemingly taking in every aspect of Eskel’s face with his snake-like eyes. Eskel blushes, but stares back determinedly. After a moment, Letho leans back, an unreadable expression crossing his features for a brief moment before vanishing.

“Don’t worry, country boy, this is my favorite town to come through.” He grins. “You’ll see me again.”

The next time he sees the witcher, only a year has passed, and Eskel has just turned twenty-eight. The year has passed without much trouble. His goat is still alive and kicking, which makes Eskel happy. Doubting her age, however, he had purchased a baby goat for a birthday present to himself and had his hands full taking care of the tiny, rambunctious animal. It was during a long chase the tiny goat had led him on that Eskel sees the figure at the edge of the woods. He stops dead, a lump of fear suddenly stuck in his throat. A closer look at the figure has him running forward, the kid all but forgotten.

“Letho?” he calls, a different kind of fear gripping his lungs. “Are you alright? What happened to you?” His steps falter as he sees the shiny red liquid pouring down the witcher’s front.

“Surprised by an ancient leshen,” Letho grunts, his mouth tight. One of his broad hands is clamped on a red patch on his bicep, the other pressing against a spreading wet area on his stomach. “Don’t suppose you have any celandine. I’m fresh out.”

“There’s a plant near my house, come on.” Pushing the rising panic down into his stomach, Eskel helps Letho limp across the field, stopping to pick some celandine along the way. Once Letho is situated in a chair in Eskel’s house, the witcher drops the celandine into a vial of viscous, muddy looking potion which promptly turns bright orange. Without hesitating, he knocks back the potion as if it is a cool drink in the heat of summer.

“Ugh,” Letho grunts. Slowly, a sickly pallor creeps over his skin. Eskel watches, feeling a bit sick, as dark purple veins begin to stand out against Letho’s paper white face and arms. The flow of blood from his cuts slows, then stops. Looking up with glowing, inhuman eyes, the witcher grins weakly at Eskel.

“Sorry for the mug,” he says, gesturing to his gruesome appearance. His voice is different, with a grating, nearly metallic sound to it. Eskel mutely shakes his head. He can’t stop staring. The witcher’s suddenly monstrous countenance intrigues him, and he stands up so he can step closer.

“What was that?” Eskel asks, taking another step forward, against his better judgement.

“Witcher potion,” Letho answers, looking perplexed by Eskel’s approach. “They’re a bit toxic. What are you doing?”

Eskel stops in his tracks, hand reaching out as if to touch the witcher’s temple where a particularly dark vein had appeared.

“I… don’t know,” Eskel admits, taking a step back and lowering his hand. “I guess I’ve just never seen anything like… this.”

“Witchers ain’t the most common thing round here, are they?” Letho asks quietly. He reaches out, offering a pallid, dark veined hand to Eskel. The witcher’s skin feels cold and oddly clammy when Eskel takes the hand in both of his, tracing the raised, purple veins with a shaking finger.

“No,” Eskel murmurs, turning over the hand to investigate its palm. Dark veins ran beneath the skin even there. The man’s fingernails had turned purple as well. “The only other witcher I’ve ever seen passed through a few years ago. The only thing I remember about him was his pure white hair.”

“Geralt of Rivia,” Letho says, sounding thoughtful.

“You know him?” Eskel looks up, meeting the man’s yellow gaze.

“I guess you could say that,” the witcher replies. His expression changes from thoughtful to perplexed. “You’re an odd kid.” Blushing, Eskel realizes that he’s still holding Letho’s hand, and quickly drops it. Then he jumps to his feet.

“My kid!” he exclaims, running out of the house. Much to his surprise and irritation, the baby goat is right back in its pen. He walks back to his house, muttering darkly.

“What do you mean, odd?” Eskel asks, sitting back down across from the witcher.

“Just that,” Letho answers with a chuckle. “Odd. I’m glad the goat came back. Noticed you chasing it when I came out of the woods.”

“Little shit,” Eskel mutters, embarrassed that the witcher saw the scuffle.

“Me, or the goat?”

Startled by the question, Eskel lets out an undignified snort of laughter.

“The goat, of course. You’re hardly little.”

“True.” Letho shifts, testing his injured arm. “Looks like the swallow did its work.” 

When Eskel looks, he sees that the slice on the man’s bicep has mostly closed, leaving only a scabbed over mark. 

“That’s… wow,” he manages, realizing that most of the stories about witchers probably have some element of truth to them. Letho merely grunts, clearly unimpressed with his body’s ability to heal. Taking in the state of the other man, Eskel makes a quick decision.

Several minutes later, Eskel leaves the witcher with a cloth and a steaming basin of water and wanders outside to give him some privacy. He goes behind his house and sits on the overturned bucket in the goat pen, listening to the other man’s grunts and splashes while his goat butts up against his arm. Petting her absently, it takes him a while to notice the creature standing at the edge of the forest. It’s a fair distance from where Eskel is sitting, but he suddenly feels cold.

The creature’s head looks like the skull of a deer with giant, spreading antlers. Staring hard into the dusk, Eskel sees that its body looks like a very old tree covered in moss and what appear to be mushrooms, but trees usually don’t possess branch-like arms tipped with foot long claws. 

Eskel starts to his feet, ice-cold fear clawing its way into his mouth. Praying for the safety of his goats, he runs to the back door and shoves it open, not seeing the creature fading away into the woods.

“There’s something out there,” he pants, then stops. The witcher is standing in the middle of the room, the top half of his leather armor on a chair nearby, bare chest glistening in the light from a single candle. Heat erupts in Eskel’s cheeks and he looks down at the floor.

“Calm down, country boy,” Letho drawls, clearly entertained by Eskel’s sudden entrance and embarrassment. “What did you see?”

His crooked smile fades as Eskel describes the creature, becoming a deep frown. 

“The ancient leshen,” he says slowly. Eskel notices that the purple veins have begun to fade from the witcher’s skin. Letho continues, turning back to the wash basin and picking up the cloth. “Don’t worry, it won’t leave the forest. Just don’t venture too close and you’ll be fine.” Scrubbing at the marks in his chest, Letho doesn’t seem to see Eskel sneak another look at him.

“It won’t come after my goats, then?” Eskel asks, reaching up to absently touch his scars.

“No.” Amusement creeps back into Letho’s voice. “Your goats are safe.” He begins to undo the buckles on his pants. Seeing this, Eskel flees out the back door again, muttering a hurried apology.

Eskel paces around behind his house, watching the edge of the forest as Letho finishes his bath. The creak of the door hinges makes Eskel jump and spin around.

“Mind if I stay the night?” the witcher asks, fully dressed and holding the wash basin in his hands. “I’ll deal with the leshen tomorrow after I restock some supplies.” He pauses, looking down into the bloody wash water. “Need to dump this somewhere where it won’t invite any unwanted guests.” 

Eskel casts a nervous glance at the forest’s edge. 

“I’d usually just walk out into the field a way and toss it if I was worried,” he says, remembering the menacing leshen. Letho shrugs and moves past Eskel into the long grass. He stops a short distance from the trees and throws the bloody water out in an arc, then walks back to where Eskel is still standing, handing him the empty basin. Eskel takes it, then remembers the man’s question.

“I don’t mind if you stay,” he blurts out, feeling heat bloom across his face for what feels like the hundredth time. “I still have the extra bed you used last time.” 

“Thanks,” Letho says, sounding genuinely grateful. “I’m a bit low on gold at the moment.” 

“I understand. I have enough food to share.”

After they’ve eaten, Eskel pulls an extremely dusty bottle and two shot glasses from a drawer in his small kitchen and brings it over to the rickety table.

“I bought this a few days after I last saw you,” Eskel confesses, pouring two shots. “I guess I figured that if I saw you again it would be nice to have it available.”

Letho scrutinizes him as he sits, taking one of the two shots.

“You didn’t care for it last time,” the witcher grunts, taking the other shot and holding it up.

“Still don’t really,” Eskel replies, grinning. He toasts the other man and takes the shot, placing the glass down on the table a second later. The burn is familiar enough to him now, but he’s not about to tell Letho why. He’s definitely not about to say that during the past year, whenever he felt lonely, he would go to the tavern and order a single shot of vodka, then he would drink it and think about the witcher who had saved his life.

“You handle it better now,” Letho says, putting his own shot glass down.

“Uh, age and experience?” Eskel mutters, avoiding the comment. He gestures to the bottle then stands up to find some food. “You’re welcome to more if you want.”

An hour passes in comfortable conversation while they eat and drink. Letho makes his way through several more shots before corking the bottle and sitting back with a contented sigh.

“Witchers certainly eat a lot,” Eskel says, eyeing the slight gut he can see above Letho’s belt. The witcher grins, patting his stomach.

“Thanks for feeding me,” he replies. Fighting off a large yawn, Eskel shrugs.

“Thanks for being good company.” Eskel gets up and stretches, surrendering to the next yawn that hits him. “I need to get up early tomorrow, so I’m gonna go to bed. You’re welcome to stay as long as you need to in the morning.”

“I appreciate it.”

Eskel gets into his bed with a deep sigh. Closing his eyes, he lets his breath fall into a steady rhythm, listening to the small noises the witcher makes as he moves about. He knows he should feel weird having someone else in the house with him as he lives alone, but instead he feels soothed by the knowledge that Letho is nearby. He sleeps.

When Eskel wakes up, Letho is still asleep. Even though he knows that a witcher’s keen sense of hearing will pick up any noise he makes, he still tries to be quiet and manages to leave the house and care for his goats without making any loud noises. He works at the blacksmith’s shop all day, mind blissfully cleared by the heat of the forge and the ring of hammer against metal.

Eskel clears up the forge and walks home when the sun begins to set. Watching his feet on the dirt road, he doesn’t see the witcher sitting on his doorstep until he nearly runs into the man.

“Gods, Letho, you scared me,” he says, his voice a little breathless. The witcher stands slowly, stretching, and grins.

“Sorry,” he grunts, eyes sparkling wickedly. “Didn’t mean to. Figured I’d come say goodbye before I left.”

“Oh,” Eskel says. His mouth is suddenly dry. The witcher is taller than him by a few inches, so he has to look up to meet the man’s gaze. When he does, he notices that the man’s pupils have dilated wide, and a crooked smile is playing around his mouth. Suddenly, Letho’s face is very close to his. Heat pours into his cheeks and lungs as the witcher bends slightly and places a quick, stubbly kiss on his lips.

“See you around, country boy,” Letho drawls, and then he is gone.

When he sees the witcher again, Eskel is thirty-one. His old, faithful goat has finally passed away, but the young goat he purchased for himself has grown up well. When he feels down, he spends time with the chipper animal. He still works at the blacksmith’s shop, keeping to himself most days unless a merchant wants to buy one of his pieces. Though he still hates liquor, he finds himself spending increasingly more time at the local tavern, drinking only a single shot before staring off into space. He can’t stop thinking about the witcher. Yellow-green eyes with slit pupils haunt his dreams nearly every night.

When Eskel leaves the blacksmith’s shop, his mind is blissfully empty once again. A distant part of him is glad that he relies on smithing to clear his head instead of something more dangerous. He’s so distracted that he doesn’t see the person moving towards him until he walks right into them. Large hands grab his flailing arms and steady him before he can topple over into the dirt. Goosebumps roll over his skin as he looks up into the eyes he dreams about nearly every night.

“Watch out, country boy,” the witcher, Letho, drawls, “or you might end up on your rump again.” Eskel opens his mouth, trying to find words, but all he can think about is the feeling of the man’s lips against his. The words won’t appear.

“Just finished a big contract,” the witcher continues, letting Eskel go. “I’ll treat you to a drink.”

“Alright,” Eskel hears his mouth say, and he mechanically follows the bigger man into the growing darkness. 

The light from the pub is staggering. Eskel blinks hard, letting his eyes adjust, then moves up to the counter.

“Evening, Gluzka,” he says, distracted by the witcher’s looming presence at his side. The woman’s eyes flick up at the other man then settle back into Eskel and fill with warmth. 

“Evening, Eskel. What’ll it be?” 

Eskel pauses and looks at Letho, waiting for his decision. The man’s pupils have closed to slits, and the dim light from the candles and torches cast odd shadows across his features. Moving slowly, he places a small, clinking pouch on the counter and jerks his head at the partially hidden table in the corner of the room.

“Two mugs of ale, and keep ‘em coming.” The growl in his voice surprises Eskel, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Eskel pauses at the counter while the witcher makes his way toward the table.

“Sorry about that,” Eskel mutters, shrugging. Gluzka watches him for a moment, an odd expression causing tiny creases to form at the corners of her mouth.

“Enigmatic company for the enigma,” she says, the strange expression vanishing. She smiles at him. “Wait one moment and I’ll have your ale.” 

Eskel considers her while she turns and fetches the mugs. She’s pretty enough as far as the women of his village go, and her smile is infectious. She has always been kind to Eskel when he visits the tavern, offering him local news or the occasional free refill of his tankard.

“Here you go,” she says, cheerfully banging the ale down on the counter. “Enjoy.” 

Nodding his thanks, Eskel takes the drinks and joins Letho at the shadowed table. 

“Pretty thing, ain’t she?” the witcher asks, accepting the offered tankard, his eyes on Eskel. Eskel shrugs again. 

“I guess,” he replies, wondering at the butterflies in his stomach. He looks up, meeting the witcher’s gaze and feels his insides squirm. The man’s eyes glow in the orangey light.

“Been a few years,” Letho grunts, taking a sip from his tankard, his gaze never leaving Eskel’s. “How’s the goat?”

“Dead,” Eskel says bleakly.

“Sorry.”

“It’s alright. I bought a new kid before she passed, so I still have milk and cheese.” 

They stare at each other in silence for a while, drinking their beer in languid sips.

“You mentioned a big contract…?” Eskel finally says, feeling the silence becoming oppressive. The witcher empties his tankard and gestures for another.

“Wanna hear about it?” he asks. Eskel nods, finishing his own drink and setting the tankard down.

“If you don’t mind.”

Letho leans back in his chair, settling into a more comfortable position. The gold ring in his earlobe glints.

“It was maybe thirty, thirty-five leagues east of here, near the coast…” 

Two hours later, Eskel realizes that he’s had maybe a bit too much to drink. The witcher’s tales enthralled him so much he had lost track of time.

He finishes his last tankard and pushes himself to his feet, feeling the creak of his hips and knees as his stiff body protests the movement.

“I see time’s gotten away from me again,” he yawns, glancing at the dark window nearby. “I should head home.”

“I’ll walk you back,” Letho grunts, standing much more steadily than Eskel had. Heat rising in his cheeks at the wicked glitter in the man’s eyes, Eskel turns and leaves the tavern. 

The witcher is solid and quiet by Eskel’s side as he makes the short trek back to his house. Though it usually doesn’t bother him, the stillness of the night is unnerving. He can’t stop thinking about the man next to him as he walks, just barely hearing the quiet padding of the witcher’s boots over the hooting of a nearby owl. His stomach twists. Warmth blossoms in his gut and spreads through his body as he tries not to dwell on the man’s face, his hands, the smell of booze on his breath…

Nearly gasping, Eskel stops a few steps in front of his door and turns, looking up. Letho meets his fevered eyes and holds them for a moment. Something sparks, ignites inside Eskel’s chest and suddenly he can’t breathe, can’t even think. Bewildered, he struggles to pull air into his lungs, not understanding the source of his panic. No one has ever made him feel this way before. He can’t grasp it fully, so instead, Eskel takes a shuddering breath and reaches out, fisting his calloused, coal-blackened fingers in the witcher’s collar, pulling him down until he can crush his mouth against Letho’s in a hungry, desperate kiss. The witcher comes to life at his touch, snaking thick arms around his waist and pulling him close, meeting his desperation with a matching hunger. Their teeth crash together, but Eskel doesn’t care. He’s lost - blissfully lost in a wave of heat that swamps his mind and body, filling his skin until he feels as if he swallowed his own forge. They pull back for air, but Eskel can’t seem to find his lungs anyway, so he tugs the other man down again and offers everything an ignorant country boy can. Letho accepts the offer and chuckles against his lips, his huge fingers beginning to slip beneath the belt at Eskel’s waist.

“C’mon, country boy,” Letho murmurs, his rasping voice the only thing Eskel has ever heard, ever wants to hear. “Get through that door, and let me show you how witchers take their lovin’.” 

Despite his appearance of roughness, Letho is gentle when he first touches Eskel, guiding him through steps he has never taken before. His fingers are careful, almost reverent, as they glide over Eskel’s skin. Hot trails follow his mouth when he slides his lips over Eskel’s shoulder, then collarbone, then stomach. At first he is tender, then tenderness turns to passion as their bodies slick together, and in the final moments of pure bliss, Eskel clings to the witcher and cries his name into the darkness.

When Eskel wakes, he is sore and sticky but glowing with contentment. The witcher is gone. Propping himself up, he frowns and reaches for a note on the tiny bedside table, opening it up to find thick, bold strokes in black ink. 

‘ _Left once you fell asleep. Sorry I didn’t stay. Don’t worry, you’ll see me again soon, country boy._

_Take care’_

Eskel flops back, reading and re-reading the note until the lines start to slide in front of his eyes. A worm of sadness wiggles its way into his stomach. _He hadn’t expected the other man to stay, had he?_ He knows the stories about witchers as well as the next villager. They always move on. 

Taking a deep breath, Eskel closes his eyes. Gluzka’s smile appears in his mind’s eye and he realizes that life wouldn’t be so bad with a steady partner, even one that’s just a friend. He drifts.

Years pass. Eskel marries Gluzka knowing full well that she loves women the way he loves both women and men. The two discuss the arrangement in conspiratorial whispers over mugs of beer in the tavern for weeks before deciding to finally announce their marriage to the town. For Eskel, it means companionship other than his goat- a steady, reliable friend to spend time with. For Gluzka, it means no more matchmaking aunts, as well as friendship. They both know that the other has different lovers they go to in secret.

The witcher visits every few years. Gluzka tactfully goes to see her ‘sister’, and Eskel and Letho spend their free moments together talking, drinking, and finding pleasure in each other’s company. They make love, sometimes tenderly, sometimes with a hard, feverish passion that borders on panic for Eskel, fear that the other man will vanish beneath his fingers. They whisper to each other in the darkness, finding solace together in the safety of each other’s arms. The witcher stays until day breaks, then he leaves. Sometimes he stays until the sun is high in the sky, but he is always gone before it sets and Gluzka returns. 

Eskel becomes the town blacksmith after the old smith passes. Gluzka continues her bartending work. The goats thrive, and the garden is plentiful. Eskel is happy.

The last time he sees the witcher, Eskel is sixty-seven. A fever has gripped him for weeks, sapping his strength and will to struggle on. Gluzka has already recovered from her own bout of sickness and has done everything she can for Eskel, but he is too far gone. She left the morning before to look for a doctor, but Eskel knows it’s a fruitless search. Every breath feels like fire in his chest. He can hardly move. His muscles ache, and icy heat rolls over his skin in waves. 

It is with great difficulty that he raises his head when the door creaks open. Shock and relief flood into his failing body.

“Letho,” he rasps, his voice barely a whisper, “I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to—” Coughs wrack his frail chest. The witcher is at the bedside before Eskel can blink, a ripple of anguish crossing his blunt features as he pulls a chair over and drops into it. Wordlessly, Letho presses the back of his huge hand against Eskel’s clammy forehead, then puts his ear against Eskel’s emaciated ribs to listen for his lungs and heart. When the man pulls back, his pupils are dilating and constricting rapidly and he swallows hard. He smooths shaking fingers over Eskel’s salt-and-pepper hair. Through the fevered haze in Eskel’s mind, he realizes that Letho still looks very nearly the same as he did the first time Eskel saw him. Eskel had been a small child then, also stricken with fever as he is now. 

“I love you,” Eskel whispers, boiling tears trickling down his already too-warm face. The witcher picks up Eskel’s hand, pressing a gentle kiss into the calloused palm, then placing it against his stubbly cheek. He sits there for a moment, breathing deeply.

“I know, and I’m sorry,” he says finally, meeting Eskel’s unsteady gaze with his strange, yellow-green eyes. Eskel lets out a small, wheezing laugh, then coughs again.

“Don’t be,” he manages through the pain in his throat. “You’ve known… I loved you… for years.”

Letho closes his eyes briefly then opens them and leans over to kiss Eskel softly on the mouth. He wipes the wetness away from Eskel’s weathered cheeks.

“And you’ve known that I loved you back for nearly as long,” he replies, his voice quiet. He straightens slightly and Eskel gasps, gripping his hand with weak, skeletal fingers, panicked eyes wide.

“Don’t leave!” he whispers frantically, searching for something in the witcher’s face. “Please, stay with me?” 

The broken plea nearly brings the witcher to his knees. Wishing he had tears to shed, Letho kisses a dying Eskel once more, letting his lips linger against the other man’s for a long moment.

“I’ll stay,” he promises, watching the pure relief spread across Eskel’s features. Creases disappear as Eskel sighs, the fear smoothing away. He looks up into Letho’s eyes again, though Letho can see the light in his gaze disappearing.

“I love you,” Eskel repeats. Letho kisses him again, gently squeezing the hand he still holds. 

“I love you, too,” the witcher whispers, watching as his lover fades away. “Don’t worry, country boy. We’ll see each other again, next time around.” 

Eskel smiles and closes his eyes. The last thing he hears is the soft growl of a lullaby he can almost recognize, sung by a voice that warms his heart. Then he is gone.


End file.
